Noble Savage
by Syroc
Summary: A young tribal warrior is about to find out that some things aren't as they seem. And others will find out that war never changes.
1. Chapter 1

**Noble Savage**

The young warrior hissed with discomfort as the effects of the Dreamleaf began to wear off and he began to feel the dull ache of the crude bone needle on his stomach and the burn of the ashen ink in his skin.

"Hurry up, would you?" he complained at Ash Tree, the shaman's apprentice. "I still need to trade in my spoils before the ceremony begins."

"Impatient already, _Dog_?" Ash Tree chided with a sneer. She never let the opportunity to insult him go. "I feel sorry for the poor girl that ends up with you."

"My name," the young man growled with an angry scowl. "Is _Shepard._"

Ash Tree leered at him.

She was Chief Williams's first of four daughters, and as such had not shamed her father enough for him to openly show his disdain for her. When she grown old enough to survive without her mother's care, she been given to the shamans to learn the subtle medicines of war. Her sisters had not been so fortunate, and for the terrible fault of not being born male had been left without a place in the tribe. Already some of the elder warriors eyed them hungrily, and as their father clearly didn't care for them it was unlikely they would ever have an honourable marriage. It would not be long before they were passed around like slaves.

Ash Tree was tall for her age, and her long hours in study with the elder shaman meant that she possessed skin fairer than most women could ever hope for. That, paired with her short, dark hair and the almost perpetual smell of sweet and bitter herbs made her a bit more exotic than most women Shepard had encountered.

Shepard had once harboured a childish affection for her, but had abandoned it long ago upon realizing how much she _loathed_ him. It wasn't hard to imagine why: he, the fatherless son of a slave, was afforded more respect than she and her sisters combined.

"I prefer Dog," she said, ignoring him. She continued in her work, jabbing the inked bone needle deep into his skin. "You know, if you'd been born a girl your name would be much truer," she leaned in close so that only he would hear her. "You'd be our little _bitch_."

She jabbed the needle deep suddenly, and before he could stop himself Shepard yelped in surprise and pain.

"Hah! Like a dog _and_ a little girl!" Ash Tree laughed at his expense. "I wonder why father believes that _you_ deserve the mark of a warrior?"

Shepard growled, and through his drugged mind the sudden impulse to whip a fist into the girl's face became reality. Ash Tree was thrown aside by the force of the blow. In the light of the evening's bonfire, the tooth and splash of blood that went flying out of her mouth almost went unnoticed. But even with the thundering drums, the frenzied cries and songs and prayers, the high squeal of metal being sharpened and the distant roar of fire, _somehow_ the elder shaman heard his apprentice cry out.

His head snapped up to Shepard in an instant, and the scowl that appeared on his face turned the young warrior's blood cold. He put down his bowl of paint and, not even bothering to wipe his hands from the sacred paints before seizing hold of Shepard's arm.

"Ingratitude," he said loudly, only just below shouting, in order to be heard above the din of the celebrations. "Do you not know the _honour_ she does you, scum?"

"She was impudent!" Shepard protested.

"She is a holy woman," the shaman spat. "It is permitted!"

The words came flying out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

"She's a stupid whore!"

The elder shaman cried out with wordless fury, and for a moment Shepard stood paralysed.

"_Scum!_" he roared, and struck Shepard in the jaw so hard that the world went black and began to spin.

"You should have been a girl," Ash Tree muttered to him at his side, grinning through a mouthful of blood. "_Bitch._"

Shepard, already in enough trouble as it was and still reeling from the blow besides, declined to answer.

The young man was dragged through the war camp by the furious shaman, followed by the silently gloating Ash Tree closely. The press of painted warriors parted before them with wordless acknowledgement, each of them wearing a disapproving frown.

As they did, Shepard caught sight of the ghost dancers as they moved and leaped around the bonfire. The bone-white paint on their skin was cracked and flaking off with their sweat and the heat of the fire, but they still moved in time to the thunder of the drums. They would continue to do so until they collapsed or until the sun rose in the morning. They had drunk heavily, and then been drugged so much that their body was no longer their own, but inhabited by the souls of the glorious dead. It was they who danced around the bonfires, reminding everyone who saw them what great warriors they had been in life.

(A secret, treacherous part of Shepard's mind had on more than one occasion wondered why the dead would come back and _dance_ of all things. There were quite a few things Shepard imagined he would want to do after he died, but dancing was not among them.)

Somewhere else, he knew, there would be blood dancers. It was forbidden for someone without the marks of a warrior to see them, but there were always whispers about the holy dancers. They would still be clean at this stage of the celebrations, but soon they would have a fresh coat of red after dancing with the captured warriors of the tribe they had crushed earlier that day. And when there was no more blood to shed, no more warriors to butcher in the name of the Blood God, then He would appear.

If Shepard was lucky, he would still be permitted to stand before Him. If he wasn't, it was likely he would end up seeing the blood dancers a bit sooner than anticipated.

Even the ghost dancers moved out of the elder shaman's path, though with a great deal more subtlety and grace than everyone else. (It was a celebration of _war_, after all. If there weren't any libations, there would soon have been need for a _second_ celebration. And liquor.)

The young man didn't bother putting up a struggle as he was dragged through the camp, and it wasn't long before he was hauled before the chief on his knees.

Chief Williams sat atop a throne of animal bones, ancient tires and rusted steel tethered together by sinews and made soft by leather hides and furs looted from the ruined tribal village. He was clad like the other warriors, with bones and feathers and leather and a few pieces of bright, gleaming steel. Beneath it was darkly tanned skin as tough as leather and the marks of a chief over the marks of a warrior

"Shaman Dinna," he greeted warmly, still happily inebriated with the celebrations.

"He struck my apprentice," the shaman informed the chief. "Your daughter."

Chief Williams gave no reaction to the reminder except a slight quirk at the corners of his mouth.

"Shepard," the older man's face was grave. "Does he speak the truth?"

"Yes," the young man admitted.

"..." the chief's silence loomed over him, and Shepard was terrified for a moment that he would be denied participation in the ceremony. "You partook in the raid, didn't you? How many did you kill?"

"Four, chief," he answered quickly. "Three men and a woman."

His role in the raid had been a minor one, as he was not yet a true warrior, but as the blood-craze of battle entered Shepard he had more than accounted for himself. The most young men like himself could hope for was a single kill, if that. The weaker tribes had already been crushed generations ago, either by the wasteland or by neighbouring tribes.

"With a gun?"

"No, chief," there hadn't been any left after the elder warriors had selected which they wanted. He'd had to make do with what had been left. "Spears and blade."

The answer was enough to sway chief Williams, who levelled the shaman a hard look. "Why is this warrior not properly marked?"

This seemed to take the elder shaman by surprise, so much so that he answered without thinking.

"He struck my apprentice before she could finish."

"Then the girl still has work to do," Chief Williams said with all the warmth of ice water. "The ceremony draws nigh, and all our young warriors must be ready."

Shepard almost sighed as relief flooded through him. He was still to be a warrior, it seemed.

"But chief-!"

"If my daughter cannot perform her duties, then she does not deserve the small respect her position merits!" the chief snapped, silencing the other man before he could protest. He then smiled, all teeth and no friendship in the gesture. "Or do _you_ wish to tell the Blood God why we cannot obey him?"

"Father!" Ash Tree screamed, "You would side with that _dog_ over me?!"

"The dog has teeth," Chief Williams dismissed. "But you? What use is the ash tree, save to make weapons?"

"Teeth? _Teeth?!"_ Ash Tree hissed, and before Shepard could move the young woman brought her knee upwards. "What use are _teeth?_ I would use my hands, if only you put a weapon in them!"

"Silence, girl!" it wasn't the chief that said this, but the shaman. The look of fury upon his weathered face was something to behold as it changed from anger to fear.

Chief Williams, however, had had enough. He rose from his throne, grim faced and angry.

"You wish to be a warrior, girl? Then so be it," he gave a curt nod at the head shaman. "Finish her work on the boy, then mark her as well. I want them both to stand before the Blood God. Put them in a place of honour."

"Chief, I- even the _boy?_"

"Even him," Chief Williams confirmed. "He killed four today, and gave teeth even to a woman. He will lead, or die gloriously. Both will please the Blood God, I think."

The shaman looked as if he wanted to protest, but he kept silent. There was little doubt in Shepard's mind what would happen should the elder man refuse the command. Ash Tree was lucky to have come away from her defiance alive: the head shaman would not be so fortunate.

"... It will be as you command, chief," he said, giving a stiff nod. He yanked Shepard to his feet by his hair. "Come along, boy. You have caused me enough trouble as it is."

Despite his discomfort, Shepard felt like singing. A place of honour for the Blood God? _And_ he'd gotten away with hitting Ash Tree? The night couldn't have been better if the heavens opened up and rained women eager to please him.

Well, it might have been a _little_ bit better.

But still. Pretty good.

* * *

Shepard was crouched down on his knees at the head of the gathering beside Ash Tree, watching the night skies for the moving star that was the Blood God's chariot. He tried to ignore the terrible stinging on his belly or the slight tickle as a thin trail of blood trickled from the freshly applied (and none too gently) markings.

The drums had long ago ceased as the war party gathered and the young warriors kneeled in the bloody mud in preparation for the Blood God's arrival. The elder warriors were waiting, tense and silent, as the night sky darkened and the quiet wail of the wind through skeletal tree boughs chased through the empty wasteland. They would watch on as Shepard, Ash Tree and the rest of the young warriors were judged by the Blood God.

The strongest, quickest and wiliest of them would be chosen to leave with the Blood God and fight amongst the stars, hunting and fighting and destroying as their God decreed. Holy soldiers in His wars.

There!

He pointed skywards as he sighted the red star moving slowly across the Milky Way. It inched its way across the night sky, slowly becoming brighter and bigger with each passing moment. It seemed to split as it fell, becoming many lights around a dark silhouette that hid the other stars.

Shepard had never seen anything like it before. Its shape was difficult to make out, but it almost looked like a huge and strange species of bird. It was made of smooth, segmented surfaces and a pair of wide, bulky wings. As it drew closer, he became aware of a distant keening whine and a dull roar that steadily became more loud. He watched, mouth open in amazement, as it changed from a thing of shadow and red light to a huge metal... _thing_, as large as a whole tribe's encampment, screaming with wind and fire.

It kicked up blasts of sand as it hovered just above the ground for a moment before dropping abruptly to the ground, resting on four narrow struts. As the roar of wind slowly faded, nobody said a word. The whole tribe as silent as the strange metal-bird-thing hissed, and a wide panel opened outwards and then downwards from where its breast or neck should have been. Light spilled forth from its insides, revealing a huge shadow – a silhouette – of a bulky figure. As the panel touched the ground, forming a ramp, it approached with slow, heavy footfalls. Leaving the light behind it, Shepard was able to see more than its outline.

He saw large, dull-red metal scales fitting into perfect assembly, and bright yellow eyes. A monstrous build: short but thick legs, heavy torso and powerful, three-fingered hands. The enormous hunch on its back, towering above its head.

The Blood God.

The head shaman passed before the tribe, boldly speaking to Him in hushed tones. The Blood God listened, but watched the assembled warriors unblinkingly. Shepard felt its gaze pass over him, and his stomach filled with icewater as it did. The pitiless yellow circles lingered for just a moment on him before passing to his side. To Ash Tree.

That seemed to surprise Him, for he spoke a single word that instantly silenced the shaman. He pointed to her and spoke again. Shepard listened, but he could make no sense of what was being said. It was nonsense to him, full of harsh and impossible sounds. But the head shaman simply nodded, and waved to once-apprentice.

"Ash Tree," he beckoned urgently. "Rise and present yourself."

The young woman obeyed without hesitation, and Shepard felt envy bubble up in him as she proudly

"Ash Tree of the Dust Walkers, Blood God," she not-quite shouted. "Once apprentice shaman, now a warrior by my father's decree!"

Shepard felt that she was embellishing the truth somewhat. 'Decree' was a powerful word to use, considering that Chief Williams had probably only done it to be rid of her.

The Blood God's feet were as thunder in the silence of the wasteland as He crossed the distance from His chariot to Ash Tree, who fearlessly stood up to him. He paced before her, right to left to right again, and inclined His head and spoke another alien word.

"Y, yes," the head shaman said, somewhat nervously. "She is female."

The Blood God nodded, and barked a command.

"Fortune is with you, apprentice," the head shaman said gravely. "You have been chosen."

"I am no longer your apprentice!" Ash Tree hissed pridefully.

"Yes. You are a warrior now. Much joy may it bring you."

If Blood God took note of their conversation, He did not show it. Instead, He approached Shepard. The yellow eyes, hollow like lightbulbs, stared at him. It spoke again, several words this time.

"Rise, boy," the head shaman translated. "Present yourself."

Shepard obeyed instantly, eager to please the Blood God. He snapped to his feet and puffed up his admittedly narrow chest.

"Shepard, Blood God," he barked. "Four lie dead by my hand for Your glory."

This apparently failed to impress the deity, as there came a sound like a snort followed by a harsh words from within the armour.

"What glory is there in their deaths?" the head shaman translated swiftly. "Any fool and kill four with a gun."

Shepard stiffened.

"By my _hand,_ Blood God," he said, stressing the word. He pointed to his weapons, carefully arranged before him.

His spears, all five of them, were his greatest pride, having taken years to fully imagine and create. Their narrow shafts were of unusually wide rebar, strong enough to deflect a blow without breaking or bending but still light enough to heft with relative ease. Their butts were lashed with long cords made of animal tendons and decorated with colourful pebbles and all manner of feathers. The spearheads were simple flint constructions, painstakingly knapped to be as sharp as razor blades. They had served him well, both in his hunts and in the raid.

The sword, on the other hand, was ugly. It was ramshackle. It was garbage. It was to swords what Frankenstein's monster was Michelangelo's David. The blade was fashioned from a length of road-rails that had been flattened, folded lengthwise and sharpened into a crude, rusted edge. The thin, aging metal had not borne the years well, and a gentle curve had formed along its length where repeated blows and attempted straightening had taken their tolls.

The Blood God looked at the weapons and grunted appreciatively. His previous derision seemed to be absent as he spoke again.

"How many children, boy?" the head shaman asked on the Blood God's behalf.

Shepard didn't hesitate before answering.

"No child worth counting."

Which was true. He hadn't met any in the raid: he had followed the elder warriors, after all. Best to leave children to children.

The Blood God seemed satisfied with his answer, as He nodded and spoken a word.

"Congratulations, boy," the head shaman said. "You've been chosen as well."

The Blood God laughed. Words emerged from within His armour yet again, and Shepard wondered how he would be able to obey Him if he could not understand His commands.

"Just these two?" the head shaman seemed surprised.

The response was long, and full of derision. Shepard wondered how exactly he knew that, as so _much_ of the Blood God's words were made up of sharp or harsh grunts, growls and hisses. There was nothing soft or friendly about it.

"So soon? We hoped to kill a sacrifice for-"

The Blood God barked a harsh command and an obvious invective at the man. Shepard didn't know what a "pyjak" was, but he didn't want to be one.

"Very well, as You command," Shaman Dinna said sombrely, unaffected by the Blood God's wrath. He gave Shepard and Ash Tree a scathing glower. "Only the two of you have been chosen. Gather yourselves, and follow Him."

Shepard was almost giddy with pride as he bent and gathered his weapons from the ground and quickly scampered to follow behind the Blood God's titanic form as he lumbered back to his chariot. Beside him, Ash Tree was almost _skipping_. Together, the three of them scaled the ramp to the Blood God's chariot and into the almost blinding light within.

It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the brightness, but when they did he almost wished they hadn't.

He saw others like him, bound at the neck with metal collars and chains. They were sitting, sullenly, in subdued groups of two or three. There was no mistaking what they were. After all, how many like them had his own tribe seized earlier that day?

Slaves. The Blood God hadn't come for warriors, but slaves.

In the moment it took for his confused brain to make sense of what had happened his weapons were snatched away from him by a snarling demon with a maw full of vicious fangs and held fast at the shoulder by the Blood God's powerful hand.

"I am no slave!" he shouted agrily.

Words, alien to his ears, were spoken in rapid succession as he struggled to free himself and... and fight! He twisted and struck out at the armoured Blood God, struggling to do what he could with what weapons remained to him. He caught a glance at Ash Tree, who was simply staring open-mouthed at the sad display of humanity before them.

Something behind him seized hold of his skull suddenly, and harshly pushed it to the side. Shepard felt more than heard a sound like gunshot and felt a sharp pain in his ear, and he cried out in sudden rage. With reckless abandon he wrenched himself free from the Blood God's grasp, tearing his own arm out of its socket to do so.

He cried out in a berserker rage even as he tore after the foul beast that had stolen his weapons from him. It hissed and snapped at him, but before it could raise his own weapons at him he was on it, his one good hand instantly going for its eyes.

Its angry hiss turned into an agonized wail as his thumb, fore- and middle-finger found their marks, blinding the beast as the force of his charge drove them deep into its diabolic skull. Shepard bulled it to the ground, stunning it further. Seizing his chance, Shepard tore a spear free and whipped around to face the Blood God.

There was no time to stand and properly leverage himself, nor was he entirely certain that he would be able to properly balance himself with only one arm, but Shepard took sight and launched the weapon at the deity all the same. He watched with grim satisfaction as it struck true, landing between the armoured segments of the Blood God's armour. Shepard knew from his experiences hunting mirelurks that there was little point in trying to puncture armour, but to instead find the places that needed to bend and move.

The Blood God grunted as the flint spearhead perforated the folds in his armour and snapped, lodging itself deep within His flesh.

"Stupid pyjak!" He roared, and with a flick of his hand Shepard felt his body fall backwards, as if the whole world had suddenly shifted and down was now suddenly a direction he had not expected.

His back struck something, and his head snapped backwards into it as well. His vision went black and he knew nothing for a moment, regaining his senses only as he felt hands drag him sharply to his feet. He found himself staring into the face of what seemed to be a hugely fat lizard.

"By your hand, you said," it spoke, and Shepard realized with some alarm that it was the Blood God. It was a beast as well? And then he realized with more surprise that he could _understand _it, which was a greater shock. "And now I believe it."

The beast that was the Blood God turned away from him with a sneer.

"Bind him to the others, and then feed Krishk to the Varren,"

"It receives no puni_sh_ment?!" something, another of the little demons that Shepard had tried to kill, asked.

"For putting up a fight? No," the Blood God laughed. "But if he wants to fight, we'll give him plenty of chances. But no weapons for him: he can fight with his _hands_."

Laughter sounded out from all across the room by a menagerie of monsters. Metal encircled his neck, and he was dragged to the rest of his apparent comrades and bound to a length of chain. Too late did he rally his wits and try to struggle against his bondage. He reached out with a desperate hand to his captors just as they withdrew, snickering at his feeble attempts at freedom.

"Hsss, save strength, fight good," it jeered. "Maybe you not _die!_"

This seemed to amuse the demon immensely, because it took off with a cackle.

Shepard could only glare hatefully as he reluctantly settled himself and resolved himself

"Damn good fight you put up there, new guy," one of his fellow slaves whispered to him. "Did me good to see one of those Vorcha scum scream like that."

The young warrior turned away from trying to murder the beasts with nothing more than harsh looks to inspect the speaker instead.

He didn't look much older than Shepard, though he was much paler than he was. Nor did he wear the rough leathers and furs of a tribesman, but rather a loose ensemble of worn, colourful cloths. No scars, either. For a moment Shepard wondered what kind of tribe the other man belonged to before he realized the foolishness of it.

His counterpart seemed to know what he had just figured out, as he nodded and shrugged.

"Yeah, I'm a townie," he admitted with an easy grin. "Got drunk with a couple of friends, woke up here. Some friends, eh?"

Shepard thought back to shaman Dinna, and the way he had presided over his tribes offering. Could the old bastard have known?

"Yeah," Shepard said, somewhat uncertainly. "Some friends."

This was unexpected, it seemed.

"Holy shit, you tribals _can_ talk," he laughed. "None of these guys have said a word since the chains went on _them_."

Shepard spared the others a glance, and saw the resentment and hatred in them. All too familiar, though he noted that none of _them_ had any blood on their hands.

"They _take_ slaves," he explained angrily, feeling stung himself. "They had not thought to _become_ them."

"Huh," the city-dweller grunted. "Guess that makes sense."

The two sat in awkward silence for a moment, the unspoken question of whether Shepard was like the others looming over them. Thankfully, however, he was spared having to answer.

"Hey, it looks like you dislodged your shoulder there," the other young man asked. "Want me to put it back?"

Shepard looked at his limp arm, and just then realized that it really, _really_ hurt. And with that, the flood gates seemed to open and his body began reporting all sorts of minor injuries it had taken in the brief scuffle. His back and head were particularly bad, having taken the brunt of the Blood God's fury.

"Yes. Please."

"Cool. I'll do it on the count of three. Oh, by the way, my name is-" without warning the young man popped Shepard's arm back in place. The sudden and surprising pain caused Shepard to cry out. "Sorry about that. I'm Kaidan. From Five Creeks."

"_Still a little __bitch_," he heard Ash Tree whisper hollowly at his side. Shepard, no longer under the influence of the dream leaf and far too angry people _other_ than her to pay her any mind.

"And I am Shepard, of the Dust Walker tribe."

"Glad to meet you, Shepard," Kaidan said with a smile.

Shepard smiled, and settled himself down. But he didn't for a moment calm down. Tribal warrior he might be, but within the confines of his mind there raged a theological and existential debate of sorts. Certainly as advanced as someone of his background and age could expect.

Everything was different was. It had to be: nobody ever came back from service with the Blood god. He was supposed to live eternally, in great cycle of fighting, victory and celebration.

But the Blood God was a lie.

That much had been proven easily enough. Whatever strange power it possessed, Shepard had wounded it. It therefor stood to reason that he probably wasn't destined for glory of any kind. And he very much doubted that as slaves they would have much reason to celebrate.

But war?

Shepard glowered over at the beasts that had had the audacity to trick him and his tribe. As his fists clenched so tightly that his nails bit into his skin, he promised himself that there would be a reckoning for the indignities that had been visited upon him.

If a god could be wounded, then it could also be killed.

Because war never changed.

* * *

**AN:** Hello again, everyone! Remember that one time, when I made a story that had a happy ending? Kinda?

That was nice, wasn't it?

Alas, that maxed out my "Good Guy Syroc"-quota for this quarter, so guess what?

Bad things need to start happening.

I do not own Mass Effect or Fallout. Because I wouldn't waste my time on fanfiction if I did. (Though upon rereading the story it seems like I should be saying that I don't own Conan the Barbarian rather than Fallout. That's what I get for wanting to focus on the fun parts, I suppose... and mainlining the Dark Horse comics. I don't own those either, btw.)

'Til next time, space cowboy!


	2. Chapter 2

**Noble Savage**

It had been almost five years according by Ash Tree's counting, and Shepard was still alive. Of all those who had been captured on that fateful night only a handful were left, though none of them had managed that feat unscathed. Shepard had a jagged scar running from his neck to his navel when a piece of shrapnel had almost cut him in half, and Kaidan had almost been burned alive when he'd been caught inside a crashing shuttle. His body was a web of horrific burns, but through some miracle had acquired a kind of magic similar to what Garm, their owner, possessed. They had been weak at first, but once their captors took note of them they had smuggled the young man away for a time and when he came back his powers were greatly amplified. Ash Tree had managed to get through the years unmaimed, but even she had become a terrible warning of what the human body could endure. Like all of them she looked like she'd gotten into a fight with something made of bullets and cheese graters and lost. Of particular note was a line of small, pink dots running down her left thigh in a clean line where she'd been hit by a burst from an assault rifle.

While their life as slave-soldiers for the Blood Pack wasn't a kind one, once they had established themselves on the mining station Omega things did improve somewhat. While its tight streets, dense throng of residents and crushing despair were alien to the lost tribe of humans, there _was_ something familiar about it. A certain desperation, fear and underlying danger that they were well accustomed to. To the average citizen of the Citadel, it was a place that could and would eat the unwary alive. To the humans, it was simply a different species of wasteland. All it took was a brief transition period for them to learn the rules of their new home.

And without chains to bind them, they learned quickly. After all, where were they going to run to? Very few had seen their kind before, and fewer still could understand their speech. They couldn't fly a ship, and even if they could they hadn't the faintest idea of how they would get back to their homeworld.

And, of course, it didn't hurt that Shepard had killed three Vorcha that had _tried_ to put them on after a fight with a piece of debris. That was one of the advantages of growing up in the wasteland: when you knew how to make weapons from rocks, then a long sharp piece of metal was a lot more intimidating than it might otherwise have been. Even if they _did_ decide to try again, one of the happy coincidences of knowing how to make weapons out of scrap was that you very quickly had a lot of them. They weren't modern weaponry, of course, but it stopped them from being helpless. Improvised knives, spears and clubs didn't seem very intimidating until they were held by thirty hands eager to use them, whereupon they transformed into the kind of thing nightmares were made of.

Armed with weapons, isolation and limited freedom, the few humans in exile returned to something familiar: the tribe. It started out slowly enough: it was only Shepard, Kaidan and a grudging Ash Tree at first, but their unity drew others towards them. Between Shepard's prowess in battle, Kaidan's friendly personality and Ash Tree's limited healing abilities there were some very persuasive incentives to join up with them. That those who remained alone did not survive long only helped things along.

It didn't matter what tribe they had come from, whether they had lived in cities or in the wasteland. Dust Walker, Stone Frogs, Dandy Men... the names lived in memories only. And, with surprising regularity, belonged to people who could expect becoming uncomfortably well acquainted with something long and sharp should the opportunity ever arise.

And as their leader in war, (something there was an abundance of,) it had fallen to Shepard to assume the mantle of leadership.

It was a mixed blessing.

"Hey, chief!" Kaidan called out from behind the tattered length of cloth that served as a door. "The frogs want us to form up. Says there's work to be done."

The young chief looked up from his work, blade in one hand and improvised whetstone in the other. The sword was the finest in the whole tribe, given to him as a gift in an attempt to buy his loyalty when fear or awe no longer sufficed.

"How many do they want?" he asked, running the stone over the gleaming edge.

It was a terrible gift. Shepard would have much preferred a gun, but Garm's proclamation that he was to fight with his hands was still in place for the most part. He had no doubt that the weapon was intended to lead him to his death.

Kaiden pulled back the cloth and poked his head inside.

Even horrifically scarred, there was a certain friendliness about him. Shepard enjoyed his company, as did the rest of the tribe. Whenever there were new arrivals, it was invariably Kaidan who brought them into the fold, or trained those too young to be considered true warriors. While not one himself, he had survived enough fights to be able to pass on the fundamentals. And he was a dab hand at repairs, so invariably everyone ended up spending time with him.

He was wearing his patchwork armour, made from whatever could be stolen from the dead.

"All of us," he announced grimly. "We're making a move against Eclipse."

Shepard grunted, and slid the sword into its needlessly elaborate sheath.

"Tell Ash Tree, the get your wards ready. Guard my back."

The former townsman nodded and smiled.

"You got it, chief."

Shepard rose to his feet, and his back crackled gently as he straightened. He grunted softly as he felt his body stir after sitting for so long, and stretched his arms and shoulders.

Not far away, Ash Tree shifted in his thin sleeping pallet.

"Why would you tell him to tell me? I can hear well enough."

Shepard buckled the sword to the length of rope that served as a belt.

"I thought we were keeping this a secret," he said.

"That was a secret two years ago," she said, pulling back the threadbare rugs that had kept them warm in the night. "I was too ashamed to let anyone know."

"_You_ attack-kissed _me_, if I recall," Shepard reminded her with grin. "I barely got a word in edgewise until morning."

"I took a concussion blast to the head. I was full of bad decisions that night."

"Oh?" he snickered. "Just that night?"

"Answer the damn question, dog," Ash Tree barked at him,

"I did," Shepard told her "I _thought_ we were keeping this a secret."

Ash Tree rolled her eyes, shook her head and rose from their bed with a low sigh. She draped an arm around his shoulder and squeezed in an unusual display of affection.

"Shepard, we are the _Ash Dog_ tribe," the woman told him wryly. "I certainly _hope_ someone's worked it out by now."

Shepard chuckled, and gathered up his spears.

"Put your clothes on, and then go find your weapons. We have places to be."

* * *

Shepard hated the Eclipse.

He dodged between the legs of a heavy mech, and with practiced ease he shoved a discarded rifle in its joints. It wouldn't stop it, but it would slow the thing down for a moment.

"_New target acquired,"_ a soulless voice said, just an instant before Shepard whipped around and smashed the butt of a spear into a featureless head.

They _always_ had a small army of robots to throw at them, and it was a sad reality that machines didn't feel fear when confronted by an exotic alien screaming incoherently while brandishing primitive weapons. Their first reaction, in fact, was to shoot them.

The robot staggered back, unbalanced but unfazed. Not wasting a second, Shepard flipped the spear around in his hand and finished the job with a single thrust through its robotic eye. He released the weapon and bounced back, wary of being electrocuted as it self-terminated.

Above him, the giant war machine tried to turn, but staggered for a moment as its mechanisms were jammed by an unexpected obstruction. It came and passed quickly, as there wasn't a gun in the galaxy that could withstand the combined weight of several tons of steel and ordinance and the hydraulic force needed to move it.

But it bought Ash Tree enough time to climb up its leg and onto its back in an impressive display of agility and wedge a grenade in one of the joints in its neck before leaping away.

"Get back!" she shouted even as she did just that.

Shepard threw himself forward into a fresh charge, cutting through what should have been a hard point in the Eclipse formation like a knife through butter. The explosion and rain of debris only made his sudden appearance more frightening, giving him the moment's hesitation he needed to skewer an asari through her throat as she tried to call out for help or blast him with her strange magic.

Yes, he really, truly and emphatically hated them.

"Push them back, you filthy scum!" Garm roared from behind. A chorus of frenzied roars answered him.

But not as much as he hated Garm.

The Krogan had charged blindly into the fray at the beginning of the engagement, trailing a pack of vorcha behind him. He had thought to crush the Eclipse in a single, glorious exchange, but that hadn't happened. Instead, their enemies had lured them into a long hallway that had been carefully obstructed in order to force them into a snaking path that effectively double the distance. And at the other end of that hallway? Snipers. It was a killing field out there, Shepard cursed Garm's stupidity in allowing it to happen with every fibre of his being.

The young chief scowled as he continued to wreck as much havoc as he could. Even in retreat the Eclipse manage to be a pain.

As strange as it seemed, he actually had a slight advantage when it came to fighting the Eclipse. The mercenary outfit focussed on barriers and shields for protection where they couldn't rely on expendable robots, and such countermeasures had not been designed to account for something as primitive as a spear or sword. They had been built to slow down objects moving at incredible speeds without interfering with their surroundings. A spear, as deadly as it could be, didn't move nearly fast enough to be hindered in any meaningful way.

A fact that many Eclipse learned that day.

Ash Tree led the other warriors in behind him, killing where they could and forcing them into cover where they couldn't. He couldn't keep much of an eye on them, distracted as he was by having to watch out for his own protection, but he trusted them to look out for him and themselves.

Elsewhere, he knew, Kaidan and his recruits would be doing what they could: tending to the wounded, finishing fallen enemies before they could cause any mischief, and otherwise lending support. Theirs was a small part, but it still helped.

The going was hard, and by the time the Blood Pack and Shepard's small tribe had managed to make their way to the end of the hallway the Eclipse had withdrawn even _further_, this time across a narrow bridge with no cover and into a fortified structure. Shepard had no doubt that they were just _waiting_ for them to attack again, just so they could unloose one last barrage on them before finally having to commit to an open engagement.

Shepard, chest heaving and nursing a fresh pair of gunshot wounds to his chest and shoulder respectively, hoped that Garm wasn't arrogant and foolish enough to oblige them with one last charge into a faceful of gunfire. He was quick, yes, but even he didn't favour his chances of making it through in one piece.

"Regroup, you worthless maggots!" Garm commanded. "We've got them on the run! We'll push these bastards into space!"

Shepard glowered at the Krogan hatefully. _Of course_ he would think that he was winning. Because only cowards and the weak would ever even consider yielding ground, never mind that it would be with a greater purpose in mind. Garm was very much a single minded person, and right now he was focussed on his impending victory.

Which, Shepard reflected as he gave the building a closer look, might not be such a bad idea.

He waited for Ash tree and the other warriors to catch up to him, using the pretence of retrieving his spears from the dead in order to do so. It didn't look like Garm cared enough about him to notice just now, but he would soon enough. He wanted Shepard dead, and this was a good way to help that along without seeming to do so.

"Hold back on the charge for a moment, let the Vorcha go before you. And then wait on my signal." he told them when they caught up to him. "Don't take any senseless risks."

"What are you thinking?" Ash Tree asked suspiciously. "Garm will take it out of our hides if we try and hide from battle."

"He won't be paying attention once he gets the charge underway," Shepard assured her. "And by the time he does, I'll be ready."

"Ready for what?" the woman demanded. She was already agitated from battle, and his evasiveness only made it worse. "What are you planning?"

Shepard shouldered his last spear, the others having been either destroyed or lost in the fighting, and grinned mischievously. He didn't know it, but the blood splashed across his across his face made the friendly expression deeply sinister.

"Plan? I don't have one yet. Just wait."

"Wait on what?" she all but snarled. "You said there would be a signal."

Shepard didn't like having to hide his plan from her, but there could be no room for error in this. Garm could kill them as easily as the Eclipse if he an inkling of what he was doing.

"You'll know it when you see it," he assured her. "Trust me."

It was an unfair thing to ask of them, considering that they were only there because of a violation of trust. Whether it was by jealous friends, hungry families or ignorant leaders, each of them had very good reason to be suspicious of someone asking for their faith.

But he was _Shepard_, their chief. If they could not trust _him_, who _could_ they trust?

And that was a question Shepard was determined to prevent them from having to ask.

The warriors nodded and voiced their affirmation either through words, murmurs or unintelligible grunts.

Ash Tree, her posture tense and guarded, bit her lip. To anyone else, it would look like she was calculating something. Weighing the pros and cons of his death, perhaps. But Shepard could see through it: she was _scared_, and looking for a way to not show concern for his wellbeing. (Shepard was fond of her, but even he had to admit that she could be a basketful of crazy at times.)

Eventually, she seemed to settle for sighing and shrugging dismissively.

"On your way then, _dog!" _Ash Tree told him firmly.

Shepard held up his hands in defeat, pretended not to see the worried frown she was wearing as he wandered off to join Garm in his hopeless charge.

He pushed his way through hissing and growling vorcha, careful not to prick himself on their many spines and spikes. It was a futile measure, of course, because he knew full well that he would get more than his fair share of lacerations and abrasions in the charge, but there was no sense in adding more. And besides that, you could never tell where a vorcha had been. Better to put it off for as long as possible and hope for the best.

It didn't take Garm long to spot him, towering above most vorcha as they did.

"There you are," the Krogan rumbled, and gave a meaningful nod towards the human's compatriots. "Your dogs lost their nerve?"

Shepard bristled at the accusation, and bared his teeth to show his displeasure. The krogan were completely worthless at discerning any human expression save the most obvious, which in turn forced the humans to be more primitive in expressing themselves.

"They are recovering," he lied angrily. "We do not heal as quickly as you."

"No?" Garm sneered. "Could have fooled me. _You're_ doing fine, even with two rounds in you."

"I _am_ hurt. I just choose not to let it stop me," he informed his owner stoically.

"Hmph," the Krogan grunted derisively. "Just make sure you keep up with me, you little pyjak. I want to see those hands of yours at work."

And there was nothing in the world that Shepard wanted than to show him, though decidedly _not_ in the way that the enormous alien imagined.

"It would be my pleasure," he said with real eagerness.

His unusual attitude gave the would-be warlord pause for a moment, but not long enough for him to stop his suicidal scheme. He turned from Shepard without another word, and instead addressed to the masses surrounding him.

"Right then!" he shouted with his thundering voice. "Let's do this thing! Show the Eclipse not to mess with the Blood Pack! Extra rations to the one who brings me their commander's head! Hraagh!"

And with that, Garm, Shepard and the vorcha shock troops advanced. Moving with the frenzied speed of fear, fury and primal bloodlust they quickly left the labyrinthine hall behind them. At a somewhat slower pace came the humans, obedient but wary of enemy fire.

They had barely made it on to the bridge before the loud crack sniper-fire sounded out and people started dying. Shepard, suspecting he knew what was going to happen next, quickly got as close to Garm as he dared. He dodged between snarling vorcha where he could, and violently pushed them aside where he could not, desperate for the only cover to be found in a charge: behind someone bigger.

As expected, the Eclipse burst from cover just as he got behind the Krogan, and the air was filled with the sound gunfire. The tiny pellets that served as bullets pinged off armour in rapid bursts, insufficient at first but tearing through with sustained fire. The vorcha enjoyed a few seconds of safety before they were riddled with wounds. Garm himself, decked out with heavy armour and strong barriers, barely even noticed the sudden retaliation even as he bulldozed through a makeshift barricade and proceeded to pump round after round of shotgun blasts at the Eclipse. Safely behind him, Shepard had weathered the assault without harm and now nimbly leaped through the hole Garm had created.

He appeared next to a terrified asari who was trying to reload her weapon with trembling hands, and instead of killing her outright he whipped his spear around so that the butt smashed against the side of her skull. She collapsed instantly to an unconscious heap, and wasting no time Shepard retrieved her gun and loaded the thermal clip in as quickly as he could.

He whirled around and unloaded into Garm's knee. The rifle kicked and jumped in his grasp surprisingly, and very few of his shots actually hit their target. Even so, there was only so much armour could do to protect joints. The Krogan bellowed in surprise as one of his knees buckled under his weight and he went down.

But the damned frog monster was experienced if nothing else, and as he fell he twisted around to face Shepard fully, weapon raised threateningly.

"You stupid little monkey!" Garm roared furiously. "I'll kill y-"

Whatever he had been about to say would forever be a mystery, as Shepard had discarded the rifle when he saw the krogan move and was already lunging forward with his spear. He jammed the long spear up through the krogan's nostril and into his brain, and the jolt that reverberated up the spear shaft as it pushed through meat and bone sent an electric tingle up Shepard spine. The great body writhed with a spasm, and the chief felt his spearhead snap free from its bindings as it bounced around inside Garm's skull.

Shepard felt an almost perverse glee come over him. Fatigue washed away from him like it was mud in water, and for the first time in years he felt the wild exultation of victory surge though him once more. Every fibre of his body, from bones to balls, ached for action, for destruction, for triumph, for _freedom._ And he had no desire to deny himself anything, not on the eve of his tribe's liberation.

He placed a foot on the krogan's chest for leverage and tore his spear free with a savage wrench. He allowed the weapon to clatter to the ground, and slowly unsheathed the sword that Garm had given him. He brought the weapon up and down in a mighty blow, but it proved insufficient to sever the krogan's head from its body. Undeterred, Shepard followed up with a second swing, then a third and finally a fourth that only _just_ managed to break through the thick carapace on the alien's neck.

Garm's head was much larger and heavier than he had expected it to be, and it took him two tries to lift the enormous thing off the ground and hold it high in both hands.

The effect it had was almost instantaneous.

Their vorcha "allies" scattered as they saw the leader of the Blood Pack fall, and in that moment of hesitation the Eclipse too the opportunity to pull back and attempt a retreat, not that it would make any difference.

His Ash Dogs, however, screamed and howled and hooted and laughed. They didn't need speeches or time or even thought to know what he had done and what it meant. For years they had fought side by side with enemies, and now it was over.

Now it was time to repay their captors for every year they had stolen, for every friend killed in pointless battle, for the world they had lost.

"_Kill them all!"_ Shepard cried out. "Leave no one alive!"

And though he gave the order, the Ash Dogs had little need for it. They turned on their former masters with gleeful eagerness, killing with reckless abandon. Krogan, vorcha, salarian or asari: it didn't matter to them. They were all enemies in what had become a war for survival.

And if the Ash Dogs knew about anything, it was war.

* * *

Elsewhere, worlds away from the decrepit building, Garrus Vakarian awoke after two years of death. And while the experience was a great deal more disorientating than it sounded, (if such a thing were possible,) he wasn't so confused that he missed the prominent logo of Facinus, a terrorist organization of turian supremacists.

But he didn't let him faze him too much, because that's just the sort of thing that happened when you're Garrus Vakarian, saviour of the citadel and slayer of the of the rogue spectre Saren Arterius. There were bigger things on his mind.

* * *

**AN:** ... Aaaaand we shift from Conan to Spartacus. Fun times!

And enter Garrus, stage left. For a while I was actually in something of a tossup between whether I wanted Fallout and ME dates to coincide, in which case the Reaper invasion would be in full swing and Shep&co would be just trying to survive, but in the end I figured that I much preferred flipping Shepard and Garrus's roles around. If you missed it (which is cool, because attention to scenery is one of my weakest points,) Shepard and the Ash Dogs ended up in the building that Archangel had been using in ME2. So yeah. I think I'll have maybe 2-5 more chapters, depending on what happens and the general reaction. Not a long story, I know, but I think I got a good idea of how things should work out.

Now go and review like good readers, because a large number of those makes me feel like I did good.

Take it easy 'til next time, space cowboy!


	3. Chapter 3

**Noble Savage**

Freedom is a funny old thing, when you get right down to it.

People will lie, fight, kill and die for it. They will call it a fundamental human right. They will call it the ideal for which all must strive. The most valuable commodity in an advanced society. A _necessity_ of life, even.

Yes, its worth is without question, its values manifold. With freedom, anything is possible.

But the _funny_ thing about it is this: you can't eat freedom.

Shepard idly wondered how hungry Kaidan was these days as he split the skull of screaming Salarian with his sword. Though the jolt of slicing through bone rocked through his hands, it couldn't pull him out of the murderous fugue that had descended upon his thoughts.

He wondered if his old friend was cold as he threw himself to the ground to avoid getting hit by a rocket, (a _rocket_ of all things!) not even feeling the pain that coursed through his being as a thousand cuts, burns and bullet wounds protested his stubborn insistence that nothing was wrong. The thought lingered as fire washed across his back and he shimmied out of the piecemeal armour that he had patched together to avoid being cooked alive inside it. He lay on his back panting, heedless to the filth and grime that accumulated on his skin as he did.

He wondered if the townsman, so warm and friendly, could still smile despite his scars. The image drew him to his feet faster than if someone had pulled him and summoned a wordless howl from his throat. His sword, feeling heavier than a tree in his hands, almost slipped from his grasp before he clenched it tight and rested it on his shoulder

What had once been a living room was could now only be called an abattoir. It was difficult to stand, let alone move, due to all the blood and bodies. There had been no time to remove the bodies even if he'd wanted to, and the suffocating stink of death had long since permeated every corner of the building.

He was too tired to feel any pride in his grisly achievement, too hungry to sleep and too weak to flee. He should have died long ago, but that was too lofty a goal for him to aspire to as well.

Foolish, ignorant child that he was, he had thought that everything of worth had been stolen from him.

Prideful, arrogant man that he was, he had thought that a handful of slaves united by hatred and fear made a tribe.

Weak, hateful beast that he was, he had refused to die alone.

The Ash Dogs were dead.

Ash Tree was dead.

A memory from years ago tickled his thoughts. _Ghost dancers_. At the time he had wondered why ghosts would return to dance for the tribe. He had wondered why they wouldn't return to do something else. But now he understood: the dance was unimportant. What mattered was that they returned at all. That the watchers could drink and pretend for just a moment that they could see a different face behind the sweat and paint.

But there was no ghost dancers here. No drink. No music. There was only death and pain.

He thought of Kaidan...

His fingers ached as his grip tightened on his sword.

Kaidan hadn't been there for the attack.

Kaidan had run.

Kaidan was alive.

Kaidan was a traitor.

Kaidan would die a traitor's death.

And it didn't matter how many others he had to inflict on the way.

His tribe was gone, but the war for survival raged on.

He screamed his defiance at the mercenaries as they prepared yet another skirmish against him.

* * *

Garrus Vakarian surveyed the carnage around him with some distaste.

"I think someone got lost on their way to the morgue," he remarked.

Which was an accurate, if morbid and somewhat tacky, assessment. It was like a scene out of some action vid, with weapons and blood and corpses and mechanical parts strewn about the room as if a terrible and very selective whirlwind had swept across it. Which might not altogether as farfetched as it sounded, if the stories the mercs had been telling each other were to be believed.

What kind of idiot used melee weapons in the modern age?

"Fascinating new specimens," the unflappable dr. Mordin Solus commented idly as he examined the dead. "Had heard rumours, but did not believe."

"And what _have_ you heard, doctor?" Hadrian Icena, Facinus officer and professional person of perpetual suspect, asked tersely.

"Nothing of substance," the salarian said with a dismissive wave of his hands. "New soldiers in blood pack, slaves."

"Slaves?" Hadrian repeated, kicking a corpse. "Well, I guess the explains their little war. And the collars."

"Krogan irony most likely," Mordin supplied absently. "Never could understand. Ah! Gender-specific fur patterns! _Marvelous!_"

"Have you found anything that might help us identify this 'Ash Dog' the mercs were talking about?" Hadrian asked.

"Hmm? No, impossible. No images, no writing we could understand."

Hadrian made a sound of disgust and kicked a corpse with some annoyance

"Think we're too late?" he asked. "Did he get away in the confusion?"

"Unlikely," Mordin said, looking up from his inspection of the new species. "Unique appearance too easily spotted."

"Doctor, they aren't _that_ unique

"Unlikely," the salarian repeated, just as dismissive as before. "Lack of naked asari body," he paused. "But still possible. Implications... unpleasant."

"Unpleasant? What do you- oh," Hadrian shuddered as he realized what the salarian was implying. "That's twisted."

"He's been holed up here for nine days," Garrus reminded the Facinus agent. It was petty, but he liked to see the other turian squirm. "Anyone would get hungry, I suppose."

Hadrian scowled and looked away in disgust, which made the spectre just a little bit happier.

Garrus saw it first. It was a small movement in the corner of his eye, but he whirled on it all the same. And as he did, he saw the dead rise.

The way the body pushed itself off the ground in one slow and soundless motion was eerily like a puppet being pulled up by its strings. But there were no jerks to the movement, only sanguine grace and deadly intent as it stood and then hunched over, ready to strike at a moment's notice. It took Garrus a moment to recognize the length of warped crudely sharpened metal for what it was, but luckily the alien didn't seize upon this moment of indecision. Instead, he watched them.

Seeing this lack of open hostility, Garrus decided to answer in kind.

"Ash Dog?" he said the name tentatively, as if speaking to a wild animal.

The creature made no overt reaction to the words, but its body relaxed just a little at the question.

He – and there was no denying that it was a "he" – looked half dead from starvation and exhaustion. (The former was of particular concern, as he did not relish the thought of having to actively monitor the prospective squadmate's hunger levels for fear that he might eat one of the crew.) But there was a hateful alertness in those sunken eyes and a resigned tension in its posture that promised in lieu of words that he would happily spend the rest of his life killing them should the situation warrant it.

What was perhaps more interesting was the complex network of dark lines swirling and sweeping across his arms, chest and belly. For a brief moment Garrus saw them as vibrant red or green or blue or purple, wet and hot on Ash Dog's sickly pale skin. It was so very easy to imagine the eerily asari-like alien stooped over his kills, watching them die as he calmly decorated his body with their blood.

However hard it was for him to take someone wearing what looked like the frayed remains of shorts and cloth foot wrappings and holding an improvised sword, that image more than made up the difference. However much he looked like a stone age primitive, Ash Dog was more than a match for the well outfitted mercenaries who had tried to kill him.

Ash Dog grunted, and allowed himself to sink back down into a sitting position.

"... You aren't here to kill me," the words were alien, but thankfully the stolen linguistics cypher was working just fine. The creature's voice was as clear and crisp as it was dead with fatigue.

By now both Hadrian and Mordin had looked up from their respective tasks at the sound of a new voice, and in an instant their weapons were trained on Ash Dog. If the alien was worried about being threatened by three armed men, he didn't show it.

"Yeah? What makes you think that?"

Hadrian was a master of diplomacy.

But if the alien noticed the threat he took no offense. He nodded towards Hadrian and gave a quick grin.

"You aren't afraid," he gave a short nod to each of them in turn. "None of you are."

He shook his head, and gestured with his free hand to the bodies around them.

"The others, they're always afraid. They watch the shadows. They look to small noises," he snickered suddenly. "They don't watch the dead."

Despite the gravity of the situation, Garrus laughed. There was something perversely amusing about a hunted man hiding among the bodies of his pursuers and followers.

"You certainly look the part," he joked.

"I've been getting some practice," he agreed with a tired shrug. "Why are you here, if not to kill me?"

It was almost amusing, Garrus found himself thinking, that just for once the hero-shtick seemed to have been flipped around. For once, _he_ was the one dragging someone into something vastly greater than themselves.

"I'm planning a mission to stop the collectors," the spectre explained. "And I think you would be a useful person to have along for the ride."

This failed to impress Ash Dog.

"I do not know these collectors," he said at last. His eyes narrowed. "Why should I want to stop them?"

"They've been involved in the disappearance of several colonies in the terminus systems," Hadrian said matter-of-factly, as if it were reason enough.

"They also killed me," Garrus added.

"That's not an answer," Ash Dog said with a sneer. "I don't know you either, and they can _burn_ your colonies for all I care."

"Then what _do_ you want?" Garrus asked, suppressing the urge to sigh. It was too much to hope for that someone would join up simply to do the right thing, it seemed. "My name is Garrus Vakarian, by the way."

"Council Spectre," Hadrian added unhelpfully.

"There is a man. A human, like me," his eyes burned with palpable fury. "I will kill him. But first, I must find him."

Revenge: the great unifier. More often than not it created more problems than it solved, but just this once Garrus was content to let one of the only humans in known space kill the other so long as it served the greater good.

"I can arrange that," Garrus agreed. And he could: with his connections to c-sec and the Council itself, how hard could it be to find another hairy asari? "Let's get this-"

"_Ash Dog!_" the amplified voice of Jaroth was deafening in the confined quarters. "_You think you can butcher my brother and get away with it?!"_

Revenge: the great malefactor. Causing problems at every turn.

"_How do you like __this__?!"_

The building was rocked to its foundations by a series of impacts, the last of which caused the ceiling to collapse. Columns of ceramics and steel rained down from above, along with the familiar squat profile of an assault mech. It hit the ground and wobbled for a moment before its systems kicked in and it stabilized itself. Dust was still settling when the telltale whirs and whines of hydraulics sounded out.

_"Systems online,"_ the machine droned as it came out of standby mode, unfolding itself to tower above them. Worryingly, the words were echoed distantly from other regions of the building.

The change that came over Ash Dog was something to behold. He had leapt to his feet at the sound of Jaroth's voice, but now his hands gripped the improvised sword like a vice. He charged the rising mech

"Damn the Eclipse!" he screamed. "Damn the to hell!"

"Situation untenable," Mordin said with mounting alarm. "Withdrawal advisable."

"What did you do to piss these guys off?!" Garrus shouted over the clangs of metal as Ash Dog strategically applied blows from his sword at the mech. (It was alarmingly effective.)

The human snarled, baring his little teeth ferociously as he called back.

"I fought back!"

* * *

It was later, and Shepard felt like half of his face had been burned off and then stabbed with knives. Which wasn't that far from the truth.

There had been no drugs to make the surgery any easier. How could there be when most people didn't even know that his species existed? So there was no anaesthetic to dull the pain of the burns, no antiseptic to clean the wounds, no grafts or implants to replace what had been lost.

Luckily, he had been weaned on radiation and poisons. His body was more than capable of fighting off the few wayward threats that the sterile environment of the _Lariat_'s medical bay, and he was far too tired to do anything but lay still as the doctor did what she could to patch up the ruinous damage that had been done to right half of his face. As pathetic as it sounded, he could only make small whimpers as horrendous gouges were hastily stitched closed, shrapnel was pulled out of his cheek- and jawbones and heavy bandages were applied in an almost pointless effort to promote healing.

Nothing could be done to save his eye, however. That had had to be removed to, and Shepard _had_ screamed at that. He was lucky that he had been strapped in place, or his sudden flailing might have caused even more damage than the shrapnel had.

Even so, it was worth it. It _had_ to be.

The turian, Garrus, had agreed to find Kaidan. He had _promised_ it. And while Shepard put little stock into the word of the monsters that had stolen him from his world, he was in a prime position to make the alien bastard regret trying to double cross him.

If he had to kill different monsters to make that happen? So be it.

And when Kaidan was dead and gone...

Well, he would have to see. For now, though, the collecters and Kaidan would have to do.

* * *

**AN:** Yeah, Kaidan takes on the Sidonis role in this story. It was kind of a difficult thing to decide, really, because on the one hand I could have everyone survive and go on adventures, but then what? Not seeing Shepard agreeing to leave the Ash Dogs to go on a _suicide mission_. Not exactly the best chief-type decision. I mean, what would the Ash Dogs do without their protagonist? They'd just be another pack of mooks! (Not to mentioned being a plot hole.) No, better all around if they die for the cause.

Not much more to say, just needed to get this chapter out of the way.

Sorry that I couldn't oblige everyone with a tale of Shepard's intrepid adventures, but I _did_ say that we left the Conan thing behind. (And despite how we look up to him, Spartacus ultimately _lost_ his war. This might be a bit of a step up.)

Moving on, as I said last time the story will only have 1-4 more chapters, depending mostly on where I go with the next chapter. (Maybe one extra, if I want to give Shep and Garrus a bromance moment.) It will depict what would have been Shep's loyalty mission, and as you can probably imagine Kaidan will be involved. (Because who needs to be creative? Not I!) If I decide to, the chapters after that one will detail humanity's possible role in the Reaper war.


End file.
